My father listens as I dovetail words into walls and walk in winter landscapes. None of the alien, snowbanked roads lead home. Even as I speak, the shadows shift across the stones I have tried to mortar into place. My father listens and weaves his willow silences into my words. His quietness builds me a better harbor than words ever could, a place from which to sail, a place to remember on the map I navigate by, where the heart of the compass rose is home.